Kindness of Strangers
by Nicholas de Vilance
Summary: //ConnMurph// They fight and Murphy runs off to pout, but gets his rear-end kidnapped by the Takenaga syndicate...Connor's pissed, to say the least. //slash, twincest, extreme, personal violence//


Nicholas: Hah! I finally finished this fucken thing!! Hah!! BOO-YAH!! Anyway, ahem...This became a song fic at the last minute because I thought the song fit the story. It is called "The Kindness of Strangers" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. I hope you enjoy, and please note that I didn't use the whole song or put the lyrics in order.

Disclaimer: DON'T OWN IT!! I own NOTHING!! Not even Nick Cave (and I'm just FINE with that, cause he's FUGLY!!)

Rating: M...torture...language...more torture...more language...pansy-esque behavior...smut...IN THAT ORDER!!

* * *

The Kindness of Strangers

_She'd grown up hungry, she'd grown up poor  
She left her home in Arkansas  
Oh, poor Mary Belows!_

The last thought on his mind before he hit the ground was that Connor was such a bastard. Not that Connor really was a bastard—in the connotation that Murphy was using at the time—they were just completely pissed off at each other at the moment. It was just a brother's quarrel…a lovers' brawl if you will. The type of thing that ended with "get some fuckin' cigarettes while yer out!" from Connor and "Get yer own damn smokes!" from Murphy—who had full intent on buying himself some cigarettes. They never made it from the liquor store bag to his pocket, however.

Disorientation…it made everything so hard for Murphy to make sense of waking up. Sometime in his unconsciousness, up had turned to down, and the cool, outside air had become a stuffy haze of dankness, mold, and the distinct smell of Japanese food teasing his empty stomach and drawing him from the dark into reality. There was a light somewhere behind him and it spilled a yellowish something on the floor and over his bare legs (they hadn't been bare before). It didn't make anything easier to see. He felt like he was hanging by his arms, but his knees were on solid ground…he was staring at them with the inclination that he should be looking at the wall in front of him, so everything was topsy-turvy and out of place.

Slowly, as the realization dawned on him, Murphy tried to shift or pull his arms down from whatever was holding them up, but a sharp sting shot down from his wrists. Before he could control it, a hoarse whimper fought its way up through gritted teeth. His heart was beating too fast and his mind raced with all the possibilities of where he could be. Hell was the first one; perhaps he'd died at he was to begin his punishment for his sins in life. The irrationality made that scenario obsolete almost as he thought it. His next idea was that he'd been kidnapped—which would be a whole hell of a lot better to deal with than damnation—in which case he would have to stay calm.

As his vision began to clear, he noticed that the yellowish something disappeared and reappeared in quick flickers. Noises and other such things made it apparent that he wasn't alone—more disconcerting than anything else. A slippered foot skipped from one side of his sight range to the other and then back again with the help of a well-formed calf flexing and relaxing, but the Irishman didn't look up at all. At least, he didn't at first because a swishy, dizzy sensation persisted behind his eyes. His pulse was throbbing in a sore spot on his side, but he couldn't see it or touch it to gauge how bad it was. Nausea formed a bubble in his sinus so he waited for that to pass before he even tried anything else.

"Inu!" someone said, thought it came out more like "EEEEEENNOOOOOO!!" It was too shrill for Murphy's sore brain to register much beyond that strange word, but the high-pitched female voice kept on with some long, commanding monologue in another language; she was most likely in charge of whoever else was in the room.

Wincing, Murphy wished desperately that he could cover his ears and the urge was so great that he pushed away to earlier pain and actually yanked on his arms to try and get free once more (despite feeling like it would break his wrists). Unfortunately, it brought attention to him and quickly, something grabbed a tight handful of his hair and yanked his head up. He let out a loud "ow!" just to satisfy his own need to let out some of what he was feeling at the moment.

"You awake," said the woman with a broken accent. Her face was pale and narrow and unmistakably Asian, and her hair was jet black. A crooked smile graced her small mouth before she said something else in that language. Murphy recognized it as Japanese.

"Who the fuck're ye?" he croaked out dryly.

The woman straightened up to her full height—which wasn't impressive at all. A short, kimono-style dress with floral and fish designs clung to her narrow shoulders and hips and wrapped around her abnormally thin waist with a blue tie. "My name is Aireen Takenaga," she replied, motioning to herself with a graceful wave of long, bony fingers.

"That's a mouthful," Murphy muttered sarcastically. His arms were aching and it made him wonder just how long he'd been unconscious and hanging here.

"Yu," she added. When Murphy looked like he had no idea what she was taking about, she started to giggle like a new born baby with a rattle. "You call me Yu. What is your name?"

Considering the situation as thoroughly as possible, Murphy sat back on his heels, the pain in his head numbing making his wrists feel like they hurt worse. Behind Samurai Chick—so called because along with the kimono she wore, there was the hilt of and Asian-style sword sticking up from the tie and looking like a Christmas ornament on her hip—were two men in black suits with dark glasses and guns. Unlike everyone else in the room, Murphy wasn't fully dressed, but instead in his boxers (which, much to his dismay, happened to be the only pair he owned with polka dots). "I'm not in the habit o' givin' me name ta strange women (or men fer that matter) when one o' us is in their underwear."

One of the men in black—looking like Keanu Reeves from the Matrix—had been eating out of a Styrofoam container (so that explained the smell of Japanese food), but now he abandoned that to give his attention to Yu and Murphy. For a moment, he looked as though he was about to pull his gun out and shoot something. Yu just waved him back and drew her sword. "I will ask you again. What is your name?" The tip of the blade dragged along the ground to Murphy's knee and then between those knees to rest against his boxer-clad thigh, threateningly close to his crotch.

Swallowing hard against the lump of fear forming in his throat, the man decided that it wasn't quite worth it yet to be prideful. "Murphy," he replied, voice cracking to soprano range on the last syllable.

"Then we have the right man." She looked over her shoulder and said something in Japanese which resulted in the shorter of the men in suits—the one with the food—opening a door to the left of the room and going out.

A little lost in translation—and none too happy about that—Murphy muttered, "Of all the languages I learned, why wasn't Japanese one of them?" This statement faded as a shiver racked through his when the sword next to his leg moved slightly. "Tha's a nice katana…"

With a smirk, Yu bent her legs and leaned in close to him. "It is not a katana," she stated casually, "It is a watabashi." She stood then and drew her weapon towards her, with a gentle, caressing of its hilt as though it was her lover. "Shorter, lighter, far more personal…Would you like a demonstration?" The smooth, cool steel reached out to brush over his cheek lightly.

"Not particularly," the Irishman breathed, trying to subdue his racing heart. Rightfully frightened at the moment, the only reason Murphy was staying this calm at all was because he knew almost exactly why he was there. Situations like these involved a mafia of some sort (and let's face it, gather up enough scary people with weapons and you have the mob) which meant that the Saints had probably offed someone that required vengeance. So instead of wasting time wondering "o shite, what're they gonna do ta me?" he was bracing himself for whatever they _were_ planning to do to him.

"Hm…" She was mocking disappointment at his negative reply. The curve of her mouth twisted chaotically until finally it settled into a passive frown. "What languages you know?" (the "l" in her word was more on the side of "r").

Murphy hesitated, wondering what possible consequences could come from giving that little bit of information. His decision was made for him when the blade came down and touched him on the shoulder. "English, German, Spanish," he began shakily, "French, Italian…uh, Russian and Latin and Irish."

"Tell(r) me something in French," she demanded, slightly excited.

He shifted his gaze from her face so that he didn't have to look at those eerie, black eyes as he thought of what he could possible say to satisfy her. Then he remembered that he didn't give a flying fuck because of all the places he wanted to be right now, this wasn't one of them. "_Je peux voir ton mamelons_," he muttered quietly.

"What did you say?"

Avoiding looking at her eyes, he tried to adjust awkwardly in his binds to gain even a shred of comfort in his sore muscles. A zip tie was pulled too tightly around his wrists and threaded through the link of a chain that was hooked to the ceiling. "I can see your nipples," he translated with a cheeky grin, "they're showin' through yer dress."

A startling calm veiled her face like a curtain ending her play of emotions. She looked down indifferently and confirmed his observation. "Righto!" she snapped, a venomous tone making the man behind her jump.

Yu said nothing else, but the man called Righto seemed to get the message that escaped Murphy. He stepped forward, abandoning his corner of the room and in a smooth motion, holstered his gun and drew a coil of leather from insider his jacket. For some reason, the Irishman knew exactly where this was going and that it would do him best not to try and complain or beg or make himself look like a pansy. He shut his eyes and lowered his head as the black suit called Righto walked behind him.

It did no good to whine; it did no good to cry. Sure, it hurt like a bitch as that whip cracked across his back and then added to the pain of his heart beating ruthlessly against his ribs this brought about a blinding flare of sparks in his eyes. He bit his lip to keep from shouting when it came again because this time, his skin ripped open and the burn started to mix with a stinging warmth that ran down from his shoulder blades. The stiff, static snap sounded a half-second before the contact was made and just another half-second after that, the third time, Murphy's body jerked forward involuntarily.

When a cold, feminine chuckle danced through the stuffy air in front of him, Murphy glanced up at his captor with such sudden animosity as would make Satan piss himself and run back to hell with tail set firmly between his legs. "Fuck you," he seethed through clenched teeth. Maybe it was just his imagination, but the next lash felt faster, hurt more. The Irishman hissed out the want to scream.

--

_She met a man along the way  
He introduced himself as Richard Slade  
Oh, poor Mary Bellows!_

--

The night was still young when his brother had stormed out, but now the morning was creeping up ever so slowly and the one thought on Connor's mind was "where the fuck did his skinny arse get to now?" He'd dozed three times already, being that staring blankly at and cataloguing the cracks in the ceiling was hardly exhilarating. At this point, he'd calmed down some—already forgotten what they'd been fighting about—and he just wanted his brother to come home. He _desperately_ wanted his brother to come home.

This apartment of theirs only ever felt so cold when Connor was by himself. The rusty pipes, rotting plaster, cracked windows, sticky tile, bug-infested couch, broken chairs…things that are usually so bright caught in the glow that came from Murphy now loomed angrily from the many corners and nooks from which they could attack. It must have been nigh on one o'clock in the morning, just past the very witching hour of night when things get so alarming and frightening that no grown man would want to be alone. Still, there Connor sat, eagerly awaiting his twin's return, chewing absently on his thumb-nail as he'd seen Murphy do so many times before. Until now, he had never understood the nervous tick; _now_ that the walls were staring at him; _now_ that he wanted _so much_ to wrap his arms tightly around his brother's waist and never let go and promise never to yell at him again. (Though he knew they'd fight again, of course they would. They were brothers after all. "Lovers first, Saints second and _brothers always_.")

However there was hardly a thing Connor wouldn't do to get Murphy back in his waiting arms—aching for that contact he missed already, after only a few hours. His mind went alight with his desire; images of exactly what he wanted flashed through his head. Laying back on his mattress once more, Connor dug into his eyes with the heels of his palms. He tried to extract that lovely picture he'd just thought up of Murphy on his back, writhing and pulsing and calling him name. _"Connor! Oh fuck, Connor!"_ along with _"Oh god, yes! Right there!"_ as these heretic twins made their favorite beast with two backs. Sometimes only one back and it was Murphy's as he arched against Connor's chest, orgasm ripping through the both of them simultaneously.

That image had passed through his mind so many times before, and it never failed to make him even harder (his hand having to increase the pressure a bit to keep control). This time, there was something different, though. This time, just as the imagined Murphy bent and whimpered in what should have been imagined pleasure, Connor was falling away from him. The blond MacManus twin felt himself being held at a distance, staring in horror as bloody scars marred his lover's skin, slowly increasing in length and depth. Murphy cried out in pain as another appeared and Connor's eyes opened wide.

He sat up in bed as quickly as was humanly possible and slapped a hand over his mouth covering up a silent scream. His head was pounding, like his heart slamming against his eardrums and he went dizzy for a moment as though he'd gotten up to fast, but he didn't care. Something was wrong; something was _definitely_ wrong somewhere in the world and Connor had the feeling that if he found that place, he'd find his brother there as well. Despite his sudden headache, he got up with a sudden determined vitality about him and searched for his jacket. There was something going on and Connor would find out what if it killed him.

As he was about to pull on his old, worn-out p-coat, he got the unexpected impulse to first don his holster (which he did) just in case. He picked up his favorite hand gun and checked the cartridge and switched the safety on before putting it in the holster, not bothering with a bulky silencer. All of this was covered with his jacket and then finished off with a rosary around his neck, and he was ready to go face whatever was ahead of him—though he didn't like the idea of doing it alone.

A sharp knock on his door made him hesitate mid step, as he was pushing his fingers into black, leather gloves. There wasn't one person he knew of that was aware of where they lived, so Connor was increasingly wary. Murphy wouldn't have been so careful in answering for a visitor, but that's why they had each other—so Connor could talk some sense into his idiot brother's thick skull. Cautiously, Connor reached out and gripped the knob to pull the door slowly open, but there was no late-night guest in the hall.

With a quick look around, Connor noticed a man in black heading up the hall towards the elevator. This was definitely out of the ordinary. He didn't stare long because something white at his feet caught his eye. Reaching down, he picked up the new pack of cigarettes and, at feeling something taped to the back, he flipped it over. A shiny, silver lighter had been bound tightly to the cardboard of the pack and on top of it was a piece of yellowish-brown stationary. It was Murphy's lighter sure enough, and that was more than a just cause to be alarmed.

Connor gripped the cigarettes in his gloved hand and took off down the hall after the man. "Wait a second!" he demanded as the elevator began to descend. He was immediately pissed (because he knew for a fucking _fact_ that the one thing that one would have to pry from Murphy's hands with the Jaws of Life was his lighter) and with a frustrated growl, he sprinted towards the run down stairs in pursuit of this stranger.

His booted feet slammed against the metal steps that no one had used since, probably, the Great Depression, coaxing loud, quick bangs and many whines of protest from the unsteady structure. Adrenaline pumped through his veins like his life-blood and made him hit each landing and swing around to the next set of stairs with more speed than even he would have thought possible. Of course, it wasn't just the adrenaline that made him so eager and fierce in his chase. He was scared to death because he didn't know what was going on and what this man had to do with Murphy's absence. _But I _will_ find out,_ he thought desperately, _if I have to beat him to a pulp, I swear I will._

--

Once he hit the ground floor, the elevator had touched down in the same moment and Connor drew his gun, flicked off the safety and aimed, waiting for the door to open. Once it did, to his dismay, there was no one inside. Whoever it was must have gotten out on another floor, fucking sneaky bastard…

"Damn it," Connor cursed under his breath. He put the gun away and headed out of the building, into the cold, night air.

He could tell by now that at the very least, Murphy was in trouble of some sort. The hammering of his heart in his chest told him that his brother was hurt, and if he wasn't Connor was going to hurt him for making him worry his ass off like this. Looking up, the Irishman could see a silver star—a hole in the New York sky. It flickered slightly, almost as though it was lonely, wanting of another little imperfection to sit beside it and grace the vast universe above.

--

Thirteen…he'd counted thirteen and his vision was going blurry with the lack of focus on anything but his back. It was a damned unlucky number, thirteen. How many men died on that Friday the thirteenth back in the thirteen hundreds? Thirteen sat at the Last Supper, and we all know how that turned out. Now, all Murphy had to consider was whom the luck would turn against. He hoped to fuck that it was the bastards that had delivered thirteen in burning lashes on his back. Despite all of his control, that thirteen had him whimpering softly with even the slightest twitch of his muscles making the wounds hurt even worse. Every soft lick of the air over his abused flesh made him flinch ever so slightly. Blood had leaked down his side and dripped onto the floor in front of him. His breathing was now ragged from both holding back and letting out indignant, violent screams. The fingers of his left hand were gripping that chain above his head until his knuckles turned white. God damned thirteen.

Cool, pale fingers reached out and gripped his chin, pulling his head up to come once more face to face with that insufferable Samurai Bitch. Murphy tried to blink away the tears before she saw them, but one succeeded in escaping down his cheek. Yu smiled.

"Why, Murphy…why the long face?"

"Fuck ya," he groaned, his voice more soft than insulting. His poor shoulders were straining to keep enough weight off of his wrists that they didn't spontaneously snap from the stress.

She dug her short but sharp nails into his cheek and watched as his expression changed from tired and defiant to pained and whining. This was a step at least, but she knew that she hadn't broken him—or really come near it at all. He was too strong with too little pride. Catholics—truly _devout_ Catholics, that is—find no need for pride or begging and pleading. Aireen pulled her hand down just a bit and listened to the subtle intensity of his cracking voice. Crimson red something oozed up under her blue-painted nails, so she let go.

"You should really watch your language," she commented, her tone retaining that amused lilt to it. "I thought your religion against such ugly words."

"I can curse…" he took a deep breath, but tried not to let his chest expand too much as it stretched the flesh on his back. "I can curse all the _fuck_ I wanna."

Suddenly, with a flutter of her dress sleeves, Yu had leapt to the corner of the room in one gallant stride and cupped her hands in a bowl-like shape on the floor. With an unsettling "aha!" look on her face, she scooped up whatever it was that she had caught and carefully turned it over in her hands. Murphy immediately knew that he didn't want to know. He looked down again as she approached and decided now was a good time to keep his loud mouth shut.

"Look at me," the fucking chink commanded. Murphy didn't move, but that didn't stop her. Shifting her weight to one leg, she lifted her other knee and used it to push her captive's chin up once more. She must have had wonderful balance.

After trying for a few moments to turn his head away and failing because of where her knee was pressed against his throat, Murphy stopped fighting it and resigned himself. She reached down with one hand—the other still holding the whatever-it-was—and pinched his nose so that he had to open his mouth to breath. Then, as quick as lightening, her other hand shot out and shoved her secret prisoner into his mouth.

Murphy's body reflexively tried to pull away no matter how much his nerves screamed for him to stop moving. Samurai Chick still had tight grip on his nose and now her other hand clamped over his mouth, so that strange thing in his mouth that was _moving_ and scratching over his tongue wasn't leaving anytime soon. He freaked out then and the air that remained in his lungs shot up in the form of a short, distressed squeak buzzing out of his larynx and staying somewhere behind his teeth.

"Swallow," Aireen demanded sharply, her knee moving down to nudge sharply against his side.

The whatever-it-was was very much alive and now wandering about his gums seeking escape, probably about as terrified as Murphy was at the moment. Still, given the choice between the two of them, and the fact that it was either "swallow" or suffocate, the Irishmen thought it a more convenient escape for both of them that he just force the thing down his throat. Gulping as hard as he could, as quickly as he could, he forced away the scratchy pain in the back of his throat then tried to pull his head out of her hands to breathe again. She let him.

"What _was_ that!?" His voice became the shrillest, most abrasive tone that he'd ever heard out of his own mouth. The light-headed-ness made him sway slightly, and that his gag reflexes were going haywire wasn't helping much.

"Cockroaches probably the most enduring creatures on this planet," Yu stated confidently, "When U.S. bombed Hirojima, all that was left the cockroaches. That one is still alive, probably will be for the next hour. I hear they can survive quite well in stomach acid."

At that last bit, Murphy's throat contracted viciously and his stomach literally did loop-di-loops. That little bubble of nausea that he'd had before—the one that had almost gone away—now intensified tenfold and doused his whole conscious self into a fit of illness. One convulsion led to another until he was sure he was going to…yeah, he did. A steady stream of bile surged up his throat and he jolted forward before it spilled and splattered out on the floor. Some of that vile, greenish, yellowish liquid sneaked up his nose and was now dribbling down over his lips and chin to leak onto his chest. His head swam dangerously on the edge of unconsciousness at this unfriendly exertion and when his muddy vision caught sight of something twitching in the disgusting muck he'd just thrown up, he felt uncomfortably close to doing it again.

That man called Righto stepped from the shadow at the back of the room where he'd been hiding (quite effectively, I might add), and he came up behind the prisoner. Murphy felt the damp tears on his cheek start to multiply even after he was done being sick all over the floor. With a shout, he cursed the creation of these infernal human beings as a thumb pressed harshly into the deepest of all the cuts on his back.

--

If this wasn't divine intervention, Connor was sure it didn't exist (ironic coming from a man whose purpose in life seemed to be sent to him from the heavens). He had caught up with that black-clad stranger at the entrance to the subway and, forgetting everything he knew about subtlety, he'd shoved the man down those steps. Luckily, given the time, this particular area was pretty much vacant. Vacant enough for Connor to beat the living daylights out of that stupid Jap in the suit.

Most of the information Connor got out of the guy was muddled and unnecessary, but the key point was that the location where they were apparently keeping his lost twin was familiar. A restaurant—Japanese food to be exact—called "Yu-chan" probably after the owner.

As Connor was on the subway, he looked over the note that had been left with the cigarettes and lighter. It was very simple and too the point, written in very badly-practiced print. "We have your brother. Come and find him and we shall play." The signature was in Kanji, but then spelled out again in little, poorly written letters. "Takenaga." Connor knew the name all too well. The Takenaga family was something like the Sopranos—that drama they show on TV. He and Murphy recently killed a man whom they believed was the head-honcho (and that was _no_ walk in the park), and apparently no good deed goes unpunished.

He hadn't known what to expect when he actually went into the place. It was nice and clean and the food smelled wonderful; however, Connor was neither a fan of Asian food or intent on staying long enough to have a nice meal. He walked in casually, assessing the few people who were enjoying a very late-night snack. A bar at the back caught his attention—come on, dears, he's Irish—so he made that his current goal. Never taking his hand off of his gun, he stalked across the restaurant.

A door behind the bar opened and another man wearing black came out. When this one saw Connor, he lifted his sunglasses and considered him slowly. He'd probably been planning on doing something else, but upon seeing the Irishman, he muttered something in Japanese and backed toward the door again.

--

Murphy was teetering on the edge of a knife, very much about to fall off into some oblivion that he didn't know he'd wake up from. The cockroach had long since crawled away, but the acidic sting hadn't faded. He was still coughing quietly and shaking uncontrollably wondering when he'd gotten so cold. _So cold_…but his back was burning and seething. He wished it would all go away, just wished they'd either let him go or kill him. Whatever worked.

Yu was kneeling in front of him again, just staring intently at his tight, contracting muscles and beautiful, broken expression. Another step down, but he wasn't quite there yet. There were a few more things that Aireen knew were necessary to really make this man cry. (And then, who knows, maybe she'd keep him. She rather enjoyed him.) With the tip of her sword stuck into the ground, she leaned it away from her and towards him, dragging it along his neck behind his ear. His breath hitched, but he didn't look up. He probably couldn't. "You really are a lovely man," she complimented him—sounding very out of place at the moment. "The way you stand through all that and most likely more without really losing your composure.

"It is a funny thought that just occurred to me as I look at you quivering and panting like that…and how you writhed and screamed at so much pain. We human beings seem to have the same reaction (or something similar) in other situations as well. Love, for instance." Murphy found it ugly the way she said that word, the way her "l" turned into an "r" instead. It was disgusting. "Screams of ecstasy aren't that different from pain."

Okay, that damn, oversized knife was officially bumming him out. He tried in vain to move away and it followed him and pressed harshly into his skin. "I'd love to hear you scream again," she muttered darkly, sliding the blade upwards just slightly, administering a very shallow cut.

_Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!_ It was about the only word his mind wanted to make sense of right now. The sting wasn't too bad—not when compared to everything thing else—but it still managed to urge fresh tears from his eyes in place of the old ones. The sharp metal stayed embedded in his skin, making it hard to move his head much. Still, he looked up, his tired eyes staring (_glaring_) up at her. "I'd love ta hear the sound yer head makes when two bullets crack it open," he snarled. What his tone lacked in force, it made up for in venom. "I've never wanted any one person ta die as much as I wanna see yer soul burn in hell."

"Hm…that's sweet." Standing to her full height—though not impressive, it succeeded in being intimidating to the man on his knees—she turned her back to him for the first time. He hadn't noticed that Righto left, but now he poked his head back into the room and muttered something urgent in Japanese.

There was something in the air that floated in when that door opened. Mixed in with the smell of Japanese food (which made Murphy's stomach growl angrily), something that Murphy knew he recognized flittered into the room. For a moment, he couldn't place it, but then he was certain. "Connor?" he croaked excitedly. Just as he was about to shout his brother's name, try to confirm his impulse, the door slammed shut once more.

"I know what would make you scream," Yu stated, the lightness of her tone never fading. "Let's invite him in to play, shall we?"

"No!" Murphy snapped, "Leave him the fuck alone!" The tiny flicker that had been his mind just moments before now roared to life in an inferno of passion. Energy crackled from his very soul and fueled him to struggle once again. He tore at the zip tie around his wrists until he was certain that the warmth on his hands was blood.

Yu watched him passively from over her shoulder for a moment or two. Then she returned to him and kicked him square in the jaw to stop him moving. On the rebound, her foot caught him beneath the chin and pushed back enough to cut off his airway. Balancing on one foot, she said: "You cur…you would fight with him—your own brother—curse at him and hit him. And now you won't struggle for your own life, but for his you'll thrash. You are a vile, ambivalent, dishonorable creature."

"Fuck you." Murphy choked slightly and tried in vain to somehow get away from her foot.

The exact second that the door opened, Yu disappeared. Righto came back in leading none other than Connor MacManus along behind him. The next thing happened so fast that Murphy had to wonder how his brother managed to keep up with it. Yu appeared again in a corner and reached out to grab Connor, putting the watabashi at his throat before Murphy even saw her lift it. In that same movement, Connor took Righto in a head lock and put a gun against his head without even seeming to draw it. All three went statue-still in mere moments. Murphy let out the breath he hadn't meant to hold in.

The light-headedness was coming back, making him slightly dizzy. It was incredibly hard to keep his vision focused as that adrenaline-powered energy started to ebb. Seeing his brother after all this was just too much. Seeing his brother's face after all this—that horrifying, alarming expression of determined revenge—Murphy couldn't handle it right then. He finally gave up that fight to stay balanced on the edge of his knife and with one last look at Connor's fiery eyes, he tumbled over into that oblivion that he had no idea if he'd wake from.

--

Connor had dressed Murphy's limp form in the semi-bloody clothes of a recently-killed Japanese mobster once he'd cut the poor man down. The white shirt was quickly soaked through and stained with violent red and there was no way people wouldn't notice that. Placing the suit jacket over Murphy's shoulders, Connor got the hell out of that restaurant before police had a chance to show up.

He cursed himself under his breath as he struggled to get his brother onto the subway train—ignoring that the one other person there had this wide-eyed, startled look on her face. It was difficult to get Murphy laying across the seats without pressing his back against anything, but eventually Connor had his just so. "God damn it," he muttered viciously. As he looked down at his twin's unconscious head in his lap, he winced and fought back the urge to smack himself. "Stupid fucker," he was talking about himself.

It occurred to him that the fight had probably been his fault, something stupid _he_ had done to piss off the other and send him storming out. It was all moot at this point, but it still bugged him so much that he was almost wallowing in self-pity. _God, help me to me a better person an' not such a fuckin' prick._ Not quite a church-worthy prayer, but it worked for now. He looked down at the darkened, black fabric of that suit jacket and knew that it was his fault. Carefully, he pulled off one of his gloves and ran his thumb over the four, crescent-shaped wounds that lined his brother's cheek. "I'm sorry," he breathed, growing more and more exhausted by the minute.

Everything became so much sharper on nights like these. They were few and far between considering New York's over-all population, but without a whole hell of a lot of people constantly buzzing about, Connor found it a tad bit more serene. For once he could hear the low, muffled rumble of the tracks against the wheels. For once he could stretch his legs almost across to the seat opposite him. There was more than enough space for Murphy to rest comfortably (and Connor could actually hear the even breaths as they forced their way in and out of Murphy's lungs).

"Excuse me," said a soft, nervous voice.

Connor looked up to see the only other person in this car—the lady that had given him a weird look—standing in front of him, holding onto a pole to stay steady and staring down at Murphy. "Aye?"

"Is he alright?"

With a nod and a slight smile, the Irish man patted his love's hair gently. "Aye, he's just tired," he lied. There was no sense in scaring the poor girl by telling the truth. "S'really late."

"Yeah…it is…um…those cuts look new, so he should probably get them taken care of pretty quickly." She reached into her back and rummaged around a bit before pulling out a white tube that looked about half full. "This should help prevent infection," she stated, offering it to him.

"Um…I…" Connor didn't know how to react to something like that. Random acts of kindness weren't something that one comes across often in this part of the city. Hesitantly, he took the tube and read the label. "A&D Ointment," it said.

"Thank ye…but who—?"

"Dog," she interrupted him. The train stopped, and she skipped off while he was trying to question her.

--

_They found Mary Bellows cuffed to the bed,  
With a rag in her mouth and a bullet in her head.  
Oh, poor Mary Bellows!_

--

Murphy sat up on the edge of his bed, fists clenched tight in the bed sheet, face twisted into a wry, pained expression as his brother moved behind him trying to make this better for him. He wasn't sure what the ointment was, just that it hurt like a bitch every time Connor's soft fingers barely touched him at all. Though this pain was nothing compared to what had originally caused the wounds, the fact that Murphy was now free to move made it harder to bare it. "Fuck…" he hissed quietly.

"M'sorry," Connor muttered, carefully placing a bit of that cream on the edge of the nastiest mark and sliding it over the gash with a cautious movement. He could easily feel every twitch and contraction of the other's muscles and on any other occasion he'd be doing his best to avoid the contact that caused it. This was necessary, however. "Just trust me, 'kay?"

After a quiet whine and a shiver that helped Murphy stay relatively still, he nodded. "O'course I trust ya." He leaned forward just a bit more, a sort of reflex to try and get away from that torturous, burning sting. "Just wish ya'd stop, fuckin' apologizin'."

Connor's skin crawled when a quick shriek sneaked up from Murphy's chest and floated about the room long after the sound had faded. His hand was immediately pulled back in fear of what he may have done. But Murphy didn't make any move or tell him to stop. Sure it took all of his self-control and then some to stay still because both he and Connor had agreed that he needed to do something about his back. So even though the blond was sure he'd hear more screams like that, and even more sure that he'd probably have a heart attack and die if he heard another, he squeezed some more ointment onto his index and middle fingers and warmed it in his palm before gently rubbing it in over those scars that marred his lover's back…well, what was left of his back.

"I en't gonna stop apologizin' 'til I know yer healed an' better," Connor mumbled firmly. Blood started to ooze up once more from a cut, so he quickly grabbed the damp towel at his side—already stained a solid red—and dabbed it away.

"Stop it," Murphy demanded from behind the hand that now covered his face. "S'not yer—ouch!—fault. I'm the one tha'—fuck!—let me guard down."

"I'm the one who chased ya off." When the dark-haired one flinched violently, Connor gripped his shoulder and held him still to finish covering a certain wound with that odd, creamy liquid. "Try an' hold still. Yer makin' me nervous."

"Fuck ya!"

Two pale hands suddenly reached down to grasp the knees that were placed on either side of him. Blunt nails dug deep into brother's skin quickly turning it a deep, bloody rouge. The blond only flinched at the pain because he knew by looking at the horror that was before him that he had no right to complain. As much as he wanted to speed up this process so that Murphy didn't have to feel this excruciation, he knew that he had to be thorough and careful—and recent events made it imperative that he not fuck up.

The sun was going down again outside the window. The pale MacManus had succeeded in sleeping half of the day away after his terrible ordeal and the very moment he woke up, Connor had insisted on peeling that now disgusting shirt off of him. He'd taken a shower already though the constant pounding of warm water made it feel like his skin was being shredded off. Currently, in the ever-dimming light, Connor squinted at the twisted mess of flesh, scab and gore that had been left over for him after the Japanese had been done with poor Murphy. The golden hues of sundown made it seem so much worse than it really was, adding shadows under the raised welts and making the red, angry blisters almost glow. That image had plagued him all morning—he hadn't slept—and looking at it again didn't help much either.

"M'so sorry, Murph," he whispered, woeful tears welling up behind his eyes and making his voice airy.

"S'not yet fault," Murphy persisted, matching the tone that came from behind him. A slight, and unexpected tingling started to prick at the edges of his eyes, and for a moment, he had no idea where it came from. "Conn…are ya…cryin'?"

With a quiet sniffle, Connor rubbed the side of his arm over his cheek to catch that which was falling from his eyes. "No," he lied.

He unwrapped the package of gauze he'd bought earlier this morning—when he realized that he would have completely ran out of money if he'd had to buy the ointment that the lady on the train gave him—and unfolded it carefully. His throat started to tighten and his nose was turning pink, but he didn't want to start weeping like a stubborn child. Swallowing the sob that tried to overtake him, he started to dress the wounds—cover them up so he didn't have to look at them anymore.

Wincing only slightly (a bit numb to the contact at this point), Murphy turned his head to glance over his shoulder. He knew what teary eyes looked like and he especially knew the stupid face Connor made when he tried to hide certain emotions. "Stop it," he demanded dryly, facing forward once more, "It en't nothin' ta cry over."

The moment Connor was done with the gauze and bandage, he got off the bed. "Shut up," he snapped indignantly, making his way across the room. He knew very well that it was a futile attempt to try and hide from Murphy, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try. Trying to act distracted, the blond went over to the little mini-fridge and acquired the one thing that never failed to make him feel better: beer. After a few sips of the bubbly, tangy feeling, he realized that this was one instance that it wouldn't help.

Unsteadily, Murphy got to his feet—careful of course of stressing his back too much with movement. With uncertain steps, he traced Connor's path across the apartment and ended up standing mere inches from the other, toes almost touching heels. "Connor…"

The man almost died on the spot when he heard his brother right behind him. He hadn't heard him approach at all. Luckily, he caught his beer before if fell and shattered on the ground because of the blond man's surprised jump. "Jesus, fuckin', Christ!"

"Lord's fuckin' name," Murphy snickered, a light smirk on his face.

Connor seriously had this violent urge to smack the arrogant little bastard for making him almost spill his drink. When he recognized the red, crescent-shaped scabs on the other's cheek, however, he could dare to do it. As much as he wanted to laugh at his own folly the moment he saw that lithe grin on Murphy's face, he couldn't take his eyes away from that marred flesh. Slowly, thoughtfully, he brought his free hand up and let his thumb ghost over the four raised scabs. "M'sorry…" it slipped out before he could help himself.

"Oh fuckin' hell!" Murphy gripped his brother's hand and pushed it away from him. "God damn it, ya little fucker! M'tryin' ta get ya ta stop bein' such a fuckin' pussy! I swear if I hear ya say yer 'sorry' one more time I'll throttle ya meself!"

"M'so—" but Connor caught himself this time and didn't finish that. "Well, what d'ya want me ta say then?"

"I want ya ta say ya love me. I want ya ta stop actin' like ye were the one that did this ta me an' I'm not gonna fergive ya. I want ya ta look me in the eyes insteada straight at the fuckin' scars." Shoving his brother lightly, Murphy reached forward and pushed himself against Connor's chest with his arms around his waist. "Most of all I want ya ta kiss me b'fore I start thinkin' ya didn't miss me."

With an indignant grunt, Connor takes his brother's chin in his hand and lifts his head to press their lips together firmly. He never needed much more incentive than that to acquiesce to that type of request. His first impulse was to hold Murphy close, but he knew that he had to be careful about the man's back. Instead, as he intensified the kiss with his tongue delving into his lover's mouth, he propped his arms up on Murphy's shoulders and caressed the back of his head.

"Oh God," Connor squeaked, breaking away from that lip-lock as his eyes started to moisten once again. "I can't help it, Murph…I got so scared…"

The urgency that Murphy heard in those four words was alarming and heart wrenching. "Shhh…" he cooed, kissing him again. It bewildered him to no end—even years from now—that he was the one who was tortured, yet Connor was the one needing comfort. "M'alright, lover."

Deep breaths couldn't help this time. Connor choked up a sob—then another and another—and the tears started to fall freely. Carefully, his arm lowered to let his fingers stroke that bandage. Even though the contact was barely there, he felt the quake through his brother's shoulders and pressed his forehead against the other's chest. "I thought maybe they killed ya." His voice quivered and shook with the heavy thoughts of the unthinkable. "I would never fergive meself…"

Slowly and precariously, Murphy stepped back, tightening his grip to take his brother/lover with him. All the while as he pulled him along he whispered soft words and comforting coos to try and be warmhearted. "M'okay," he repeated. Connor whimpered into his shoulder and a slightly damp spot was slowly spreading over Murphy's bare skin.

The dark-haired brother sat Connor down on his bed—careful not to bend his back too much—and lifted his head to look into his reddening, watery eyes. Thumbs stroked over the teary cheeks and Murphy leaned in to lick that saltwater away. "Stop cryin', please?" He kissed him soundly on the lips, but it didn't last nearly long enough because Connor was still shaking and trying not to whine. "Ya can't cry, 'cause then I'll cry, an' ya know what a big baby I am. I'll crawl up inta the fetal position, an' I can't do that right now, 'cause me back hurts. So ya can't keep cryin', it en't fair."

A wry laugh found it's way through the ragged breaths in Connor's tight throat. He nuzzled against the hand on his cheek and tried to crack a smile with the salty droplets still drizzling over his skin. "M'sorry," he mumbled, sniffling once more while taking a deep gulp of air on a haggard breath.

With a disgruntled sigh, Murphy shoved his brother backward onto the mattress and straightened out to stand over him. "Please, for the love of _all that is holy_ stop sayin' that yer sorry, 'specially ta someone like me."

Unexpectedly, Connor grabbed his brother's hand and pulled him firmly, but gently down over him. Both were very careful of how Murphy moved, but it seemed to be just fine for him to be on his hands and knees over the other, grinning sneakily down at him. "I'll stop once ya prove yer alright," Connor stated firmly, defiantly rubbing his runny nose on the back of his wrist.

"Just how do I do that, I wonder?"

"I'll give ya three guesses."

Murphy's grin grew impossibly wider as he leaned down tenderly to peck at the corner of his love's mouth. He sunk to his elbows and let his knees straighten out so that he could lay flush against that warm, shaking body below him. With a careful hand, he gripped his friend's hair and kissed and nipped along Connor's throat, chin and ear. Pain started to fade as a flush of warmth slipped over him. "First guess," he began playfully, "how about beat yer ass at poker, hm?" His hand slipped down over his brother's jeans and teased the area beneath the fly until he had urged up a bulge big enough to suit his liking.

The remnants of a snuffle that was still stuck in Connor's throat changed at the last minute into a loud moan. He definitely hadn't been expecting that. "Mmmh…wrong," he stated, bucking up involuntarily against that hand, "ya suck at poker. Guess again?"

Murphy clenched his fingers tightly over that denim lump before chuckling lightly and lowering his head to suckle on his twin's bottom lip. The shivering started to ebb and give way to something else. "There are things other than poker that I can suck very well, yes?" He relished in the beautiful soprano lilt of Connor's next sigh as he ran both his hands under the other's shirt. "How about that's guess two?"

"So close…" Connor breathed, laughing half-heartedly at the insinuation with the stickiness of dried, salt tears still on his face. "God yes, but no…not quite there yet, brother."

A lithe, cheeky smirk arose on the pale, scarred features of Murphy's face and he effectively ground his hips down on the other's. Both men groaned loudly at the friction and he was actually able to ignore the pull and stress it caused his back. "Third guess, I s'pose," he hissed into his love's ear. He need not guess at this point—for he knew exactly what his friend wanted—but he liked this. It felt like forever since he'd done this, all of these emotions that were being excited felt so far away. For now, he needed just this contact to let them all resurface. "What if I fucked ya senseless?" he suggested, voice no more than a whisper.

It must have been Connor's voice that cracked beyond the flute register at that drug-like purr that entered his ear. He tried with all his might to keep from wrapping his arms tightly around his brother and clinging desperately to his back (the back that he knew damn well he shouldn't even touch). "Yes!" he demanded sharply, "hell yes!"

And that was settled just like that. Connor resorted to a tight grip on Murphy's hips just so that he could occupy his hands while the dark one busied himself with undressing both of them. This was right, and this was good. Years of torment and neglect could never make Murphy forget this—his sin, his life, his love—for he felt more alive now that he was once more reunited with the familiarity of his brother—his home—than he ever could anywhere else.

_So mothers keep your girls at home  
Don't let them wander out alone  
…Oh poor Mary Bellows!…_

End

* * *


End file.
